Secret of the 7th Scarab (The Mummifier's Daughter Series Book 4) Read online

  "Drink," the young voice commanded.

  Shabaka took a careful draw of the fluid, uncertain of what it could be, only to take a deeper draw when the taste of water registered. It was tepid and stale, not uncommon for water being carried through the desert. After a few deep dregs, the skin was taken away and Shabaka made to object, but again no sound escaped his lips.

  "Not too much," the young voice said, "or you will get water sickness."

  Shabaka felt his forehead crease, never having heard of water disease, and hoarsely mumbled, "Water sickness?"

  "Yes," the young one replied, "when men have been deprived of water in the desert, they drink too much and become drunk on water."

  "You are used to the desert?" Shabaka asked the young boy, his voice still croaky from misuse. He chanced a glance, his eyes allowing only a blurry view of the immediate surrounding area. It took several moments for his eyes to focus and make out the image of a young boy, on the brink of manhood, crouched nearby. The boy remained silent, which caused Shabaka to wonder why he would be traveling with slave traders.

  "Where did you learn that?" Shabaka asked, his voice still weak but more audible, while focusing his attention on the boy.

  "From my mother. She said, "To a water-starved man, water is as good as wine.'" The boy replied.

  Shabaka clenched his teeth as he moved to sit and fought the grunt that wanted to escape. A stabbing pain from his wrists caused him to glance down and notice they were tightly bound. "Where is your mother?" Shabaka asked, looking over the youth, who was darkly tanned. When the young boy declined to reply, Shabaka's gaze moved over the others in the immediate area.

  They were situated some distance from another larger group—what he took to be women. Their bodies were draped in cloths, which he knew was to protect their skins from the harsh desert sun. A short distance from them there was a much smaller group of men.

  "Our caravan was attacked and looted, and both my parents were killed," the young boy started, causing Shabaka to turn and look at him.

  "You have been captured and sold as a slave?"

  The young boy nodded, "When they attacked, my mother told me to hide and I did. But I was discovered and taken to a place where someone bought me."

  "Who bought you?" Shabaka asked.

  The boy shook his head as he spoke, "The man who bought me is not here. He shoved me on the cart with you and told the others that I was to remain with you."

  Shabaka shifted into a more comfortable position and hissed. The young boy moved closer, reaching out to help, but stopped midway when Shabaka shook his head and instead asked, "The man who did this to you is not a nice person?"

  "No, he is not." Shabaka gasped, as he managed to move into a more comfortable position, while assessing his injuries. The boy remained silent as Shabaka mentally checked his body, having concluded that although nothing felt broken, he was in no condition to attempt an escape. He again looked around him, the harsh sunlight hurting his eyes.

  "Where are we?" he asked, slowly turning to look at the young boy.

  We are about half a day's travel from the valley. The sand has become too deep for the dray. It got stuck a few times earlier today."

  "So why have they have stopped because of that?" Shabaka asked, once again turning to look at the people around them, trying to make out whom the three mysterious voices belonged to. He looked for some shade; however, the only shadow available was from the camels as they stood grouped in the heat. The usage of the animals was enough of an indication that they would be traveling through the desert for some time.

  The small group of men gathered to the side of the camels appeared to be slaves. None was very physical, but they were hardened and the expressions on their faces were bitter. They had sinewy muscles that bespoke of years of hard labor. Just to the side of them there were several smaller crates piled together.

  "The sun is above us," the boy said pointing up. "One does not travel now."

  "Which way are we going?" Shabaka asked, as he looked toward the distance. But as far as the eye could see there were only pale sand dunes, all strikingly similar in appearance.

  "We are traveling into the morning sun," the boy replied, "but I do not know where the route goes, I have never traveled this way. My family always traveled past the Valley of Kings, through the stone desert."

  Shabaka tried to remember the land on the eastern side of Thebes, but the uniform landscape made it difficult to distinguish exactly where they were, or how long it could take before he met someone who could help him. He knew travelers rested at midday, as it prevented them from traveling in circles. They would remain where they were until the sun started lowering on the horizon, as the dangers of wandering in the desert or losing one's way often resulted in death.

  The ropes again bit into his wrists when he tried to use his hands, which caused him to look at the boy and ask, "Why are your hands free?"

  "They believe you to be a fighter and that you will hurt others if your hands are free. They have left your feet unbound," the young boy said, indicating Shabaka's ankles. Shabaka glanced at the boy's ankles, noticing their fettered state.

  "What is your name?" Shabaka asked,

  "To them, I am boy."

  "And to your parents?"

  "Gishup," the boy murmured.

  "You have a good heart, Gishup, remember that," Shabaka sincerely commented, knowing well that the first indignity a slave suffers is the loss of individual identity—something he did not want to see happen to this boy.

  Gishup nodded his head.

  Shabaka again looked over the men, while thinking about Gishup's words. Yes, he would fight with these people. His position in life was much higher than these traders or the common slaves with crudely crafted fetters around their ankles. The length of rope that wove among their feet was hardly sufficient to allow for easy movement. He would find a way out.

  * * *

  For the remainder of the afternoon, Shabaka watched everyone, trying to establish who was in charge and how the chain of command worked. He quickly realized that the group consisted of two separate traders, who seemed to know one another well, and each had a helper. The man to whom the harsh voice belonged was physical, even from a distance one noticed his hardened body. He had a scar running alongside his neck and a ridged nose, indicative of several serious skirmishes. The other man was lankier and appeared to be the one responsible for the women. Shabaka was familiar with the trade of women to the east, but knew little of the trade of men. From their appearances, the other slaves were there only to transport goods. As much as he tried, he could not find a valid reason as to why he and the boy would be taken east.

  * * *

  As the sun lowered toward the western horizon, everyone gathered their packs. The man with a scar came up to him and tied the end of a rope to the bonds on his wrists, then suddenly yanked him forward. Pain shot through Shabaka's wrists and up his arms as he was lugged forward.

  "Move! I have no time for dawdlers," the man said, as he turned toward another man who approached with a camel and handed him the other end of the rope. "If you do not walk, you will be dragged. And if you want to fight, you can fight with the camel."

  The other end of the rope was secured to the animal's pack, and Shabaka found himself lunging forward when the animal was instructed to move. "I do not have time for arguments," the man concluded, as Shabaka stumbled in an attempt to maintain his feet.

  Pain shot through his arms and back as the animal pulled him, causing Shabaka to stumble and fall, being dragged several cubits before he was able to stand. However, instinct won out as Shabaka tried to move fast enough to loosen the strain on the rope, which gave his shoulders and back some reprieve. Gishup rushed to keep up with him, finally falling into step, with the other slaves forming a line behind them.

  Shabaka's body objected to the treatment. However, the stiffness in his muscles eased and movement became easier as they progressed, while a glare hung over the distant dune
s and the heat rose from the hot sands.

  * * *

  Just as the sun touched the tips of the western landscape, a slave's piercing screams filled the air, as he dropped the crate he was carrying. The piercing wails caused everyone to stop and look in his direction, while the man frantically started to grab and scratch at his skin. He ran as fast as his fetters would allow him, yelping as he stumbled and fell to the sand, rolling uncontrollably. Those situated closest to the crate he had dropped stepped away from it as the man's screams grew more desperate. Incoherent words mixed with terror filled the air as red welts appeared on his skin, the man clawed at the areas, calling for help, but everyone was too afraid to approach him.

  "Leave him!" the man with the scar on his neck harshly commanded, while more welts broke out on the man's skin. Several started to weep blood, mixing with the sand.

  Shabaka turned to look at Gishup, when the only recognizable words between the terror-struck screeches the man uttered were, "Scarabs, they are eating me!"

  Shabaka wanted to tell Gishup to look away from the horrific sight as the man became more desperate in his attempts to rid himself of the invisible foe he fought. Shabaka had never witnessed such an event; however he deduced from Gishup's expression that the young boy was somehow familiar with such events, as he did not seem as affected.

  "What is the matter with him?" Shabaka asked.

  Gishup turned to look at Shabaka, his expression blank as he stated, "We will all die."

  A chill ran up Shabaka's spine at the matter-of-fact tone the boy had replied with. Although he was still trying to figure out a means of escaping, having never even thought that he would remain in the situation for any prolonged period of time, the lack of emotion with which the boy spoke gave a clear indication to a finality of their situation, something which he was not ready for.

  "What makes you say that?" Shabaka asked, after having recovered from his initial stupor.

  "He is the second one to die like that," Gishup remarked. "The crate holds something powerful, something that curses those around it, and we have all been cursed by it."

  Just then the lankier man approached the man with the scar, his body rigid with anger as he spoke. "I told you not to bring that thing with us! I told you it will curse us all!"

  "Oh, be quiet, would you?" the more physical man commanded as he looked at the man thrashing in the sand.

  "Be quiet?!" the first exclaimed. "We have already lost two men—two of the best, strongest men to that thing! Just because you insisted that it should be brought along. What? You want it to kill everyone?"

  "It will not kill everyone." The more physical man harshly spat back.

  "It has already killed two. Open your eyes! This is not some desert haze—that man is dying! I'm not having that cursed charm anywhere near the women. If I want a good price for them then I need them in good health when we reach the shore, not looking like a bunch of lepers!"

  The slave's thrashing slowed, his cries elongated into a long wail before he grew silent, his body stilling. The other slaves quickly moved some distance from the crate.

  "Do you know where that crate came from?" Shabaka asked in hushed tones.

  "No. It was with them when we left the city."

  The man with the scar approached the offending crate and looked at it, cursing under his voice as he looked at the others. Shabaka watched as he looked over each of the men who nervously twitched in his presence.

  "Let the dark-skinned one carry it!" a scrawny man called from the side. "It is his owner's crate, so I do not see why we should lose another slave. His owner can bear the cost."

  Everyone's gaze turned toward Shabaka, who looked at the young boy, cringing next to him. "What have the others said about the crate?" he demanded in hushed tones from the boy.

  The man with the scar started to make his way toward them, his stride purposeful as he signaled for his helper to follow him.

  "Not much," the boy concernedly replied, "but from the talk I have determined that whatever is in there comes from a tomb and that it is cursed."

  The man with the scar came to stand before Shabaka and looked him over, before turning to look at the crate and then back at Shabaka, commanding, "You will carry the crate."

  To which Shabaka firmly replied, "No."

  "You will carry it!" the man insisted, his voice harsh as he pointed toward the crate.

  To which Shabaka once again replied, "No, I will not."

  The man's arm moved and he signaled something, and Shabaka watched as a few of the men stepped forward, his helper producing a whip.

  "You can whip me all you like, but there is no way that I will carry the ill-gotten gains of a tomb."

  "I was warned about you," the man seethed, "I was told that you are stubborn and not afraid of the whip, and that you talk back," the man continued while taking the whip.

  Shabaka squared his shoulders, determined not to show any fear.

  However he felt a cold bolt of dread shoot through him when two men seized his arms, and the man instead turned his attention toward Gishup, who was also restrained by two other men.

  "But what about your young companion?" the man asked, stepping closer to Gishup, whose eyes widened at the question.

  Shabaka felt his heart race, and he lurched against the men restraining him. Knowing that if he were not injured, he would have been able to break free, but instead their grip bit into the bruises on his arms, the pain that shot up his arms was almost unbearable.

  "He has never before felt a whip," the man taunted, while Gishup fought against the men who restrained him. "I was told to use him as your whipping boy, that you will listen to his pleas," the man contemptuously spat. He uncoiled the whip in his hand as he indicated that the two men should turn the boy around and pull the cloth from his shoulders.

  A sick sensation settled in Shabaka's stomach as the man flicked the whip. The other men held the boy fast, as the sickening thwack of leather hitting bare skin sounded. The screaming wail that escaped Gishup caused bile to rise in Shabaka's throat, with his body feeling numb.

  "This is what will happen if you do not listen," the man continued, again flicking the whip to connect with the newly scathed skin of young Gishup's back. The second lash drew blood and another louder scream from the boy. Unlike practiced whip lashers, this man struck wherever he could hit.

  Shabaka felt his anger rise and his hands clenched into firsts as the man once again flicked the whip, goading, "I wonder how many lashes it would take to finish this one. The last boy we had took fifteen." As the third lash connected with Gishup's flesh and a sickening thwack sounded, he again screamed, his knees giving out underneath him.

  "That's enough!" Shabaka exclaimed.

  The man turned to Shabaka, decreeing, "I stop only when I have your agreement to do the tasks you are told," and then gestured to the men to lift Gishup, again lifting the whip.

  Shabaka hesitated for a moment, before relenting, exclaiming, "I will carry the crate," mere moments before the lash landed on the boy's back.

  The man turned around goading and Shabaka felt his anger rise, clenching his fists even tighter as the men let go of Gishup, leaving him to fall to the ground curling up into a small bundle, clasping his knees as he wept and the welts on his back bled.

  The man with the scar turned to Shabaka, recoiling the whip as he spoke, "Next time you defy me I will draw blood from every limb on his body."

  Shabaka lurched forward, pulling against those who restrained him. The men tightened their hold on him.

  The man stepped closer, and resolutely said, "You cause any more trouble, Nubian, he will bear the consequences." After which he spat at Shabaka and turned back to the man who had brought him the whip, this time taking a knife from him.

  "Hold his arms," he commanded to the two men who restrained Shabaka, then stepped closer. The muscles in Shabaka's arms twitched as the ropes were cut, and the man intentionally nicked Shabaka's wrist.

  Shabaka clenc
hed his teeth but remained silent while they removed the rope from his wrists, twisting them a few times to loosen up.

  The two men restraining him hesitantly released him, and once freed he quickly moved from them, causing them to yelp in alarm, grappling at the air in an attempt to again restrain him, only to suddenly halt when he instead knelt next to the boy. Shabaka looked over the boy's injuries while trying to calm him.

  "It hurts, it hurts really bad," the boy sobbed, refusing to move from where he lay.

  "Oh, so touching," the man with the scar provoked. "It is going to be so easy to break you. And here I thought you were going to be a handful."

  Shabaka turned to glare at the man, who turned and walked off, commanding the others "Pick up your crates; I want to make the well before dark! We have wasted enough time. Get the water skin off that dead man and give it to the Nubian," he added, pointing to the slave in the sand.

  "We should cover him," the scrawny one said.

  "What for? The hyenas will pick his bones clean."

  Shabaka took the proffered water skin from the slave who hesitantly extended it to him, while trying to convince the boy to get up. He hoped that the well was not too far, as he opened the skin and poured the water over the boy's back, trying to ease some of the pain.

  "It burns," the boy complained.

  "Just breathe deeply," Shabaka encouraged. "It will help with the pain." Gishup suddenly grew very quiet and rigid. "Come, Gishup, you have to get up. They are getting ready to leave."

  Gishup moved to get up and tried to regain his feet, his legs quivering beneath him, while Shabaka tried as best to support him

  A few paces later, he felt the boy's body stiffen next to him. "You knew!" Gishup accused. "You knew they were going to use me as a whipping boy!"

  Shocked, Shabaka shook his head, immediately regretting the sudden movement, as the world around him seemed to spin.

  "Now we will be the next to die!" the boy angrily accused. Shabaka was thankful for the boy's anger, for he knew it would compel the boy to move to fight, while the harshness in his voice carried his enforced maturity.